


i'm so in my head (when we're outta touch)

by groundopenwide



Category: Bastille (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Dan is a student radio DJ, Fluff, M/M, gratuitous music references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 16:54:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24000169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/groundopenwide/pseuds/groundopenwide
Summary: “Hello, Dan. How’s your night been?”“Itwasgoing fine.” Dan leans heavily on thewas.“Are you calling to tell me my music taste is ‘pretentious’ again?”
Relationships: Charlie Barnes/Dan Smith
Comments: 12
Kudos: 19





	i'm so in my head (when we're outta touch)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dansmlth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dansmlth/gifts).



> this fic is for my darling bella, based on the following prompt:
> 
> “i run the night slot on campus radio and some jackass keeps calling in to insult my music taste and request high school musical songs instead.” 
> 
> what year does this take place in?? nobody knows. just roll with it. also made a [playlist on spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/57QhCozKHHZcOuVJNWGPtD?si=peoh83HYTAiW5Oxb19uT8A) bc why not. hope you like this bella!!
> 
> title is from the one and only "i really like you" by carly rae jepsen.

“That last song was ‘Brazil’ by Declan McKenna. If you haven’t heard of him, just go browse the indie category on Netflix—you’ll find a song of his in pretty much every single film. Which isn’t a bad thing! I love Declan. Obviously, otherwise I wouldn’t be playing him on my show. Um.”

Dan stares at his reflection in the studio window and makes a cutting gesture across his own neck. _You’re an idiot._

“Anyway, I’ve got a few more songs queued up for you lot—and by ‘you lot’ I mean the five people out there listening—so I’ll spare you all the sound of my awful voice and let those play. In the meantime, feel free to call in and request something. Or tell me how annoying I am, either way. My name’s Dan, it’s about eleven o’clock on Tuesday night, and you’re listening to _Final Hour_ on Leeds Student Radio. Cheers.”

He starts up the next track and takes off his headphones, then dumps his head into his hands with a groan. _Idiot,_ he thinks again. _Idiot, idiot, idiot—_

The station landline starts to ring.

“Thanks for calling _Final Hour,_ this is Dan.”

“Yeah, hi,” a voice says. “I wanted to request a song.”

Dan straightens up in shock. “What? Seriously?”

The other end of the line stays quiet for a second. 

“Well, yeah. This is a radio show, right?”

“Yeah. Yeah.” Dan mimes banging his head against the table. “It’s just—I usually only get, like, prank callers trying to order pizza.”

“Oh,” the person says. “Well. That’s a bit shit.”

“Yeah,” Dan says for the thousandth time in a row. “So, uh—what can I play for you?”

“‘Breaking Free’ from High School Musical.” A beat, and the stranger adds, “please.”

Dan opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

“...hello?” the stranger says.

“Shit. Yeah, hi. Are you—” Dan clears his throat. “You’re not being serious. Are you?”

“Dead serious. ‘Breaking Free’ is a classic duet.”

Dan can’t believe this is his life. The first genuine request he’s gotten in ages, and it’s for a High School Musical song. Jesus. Jesus _christ._

“It’s just,” Dan starts. “This isn’t really—that type of show—”

“Thought _Final Hour_ prided itself on being mixed genre,” the stranger accuses.

“Well.” Dan’s voice goes high. “Yes. I—I have said that, yes.”

“In that case, you should have no problem playing my song.”

“Right. Of course. No problem at all.” Dan winces as he adds the track to his queue. “And, uh, who am I dedicating this to, exactly?”

“Just me. Charlie.”

“Alright. Thanks for...calling in, I guess.”

“Sure. Always happy to enlighten the less informed.”

Dan goes bug-eyed. “‘Less informed?’ Are you insulting my music taste?”

“It is rather pretentious,” Charlie says, nonchalant. “Anyway, I’ve got revising to do. Thanks for the song. I’ll be listening!”

And then he hangs up.

“‘Pretentious,’” Dan mutters to himself, pulling his headphones back on and scowling at the computer screen as the final notes of “Skinny Love” by Bon Iver fade to a close. “I’m not pretentious. My music taste is _not_ pretentious.”

Dan unmutes his mic.

“So, this next song is a request from Charlie something-or-other. Please direct any inquiries or complaints to him. Good luck with the revision, Charlie—hopefully my pretentious music taste doesn’t distract you too much.”

_We’re soarin’, flyin’_

_There’s not a star in heaven_

_That we can’t reach—_

Dan’s mobile vibrates with a call on the counter in front of him.

“Is this _High School Musical?”_ Ralph demands when he picks up.

“I was held at gunpoint,” Dan tells him.

*

“Welcome back to another night with _Final Hour._ I’m Dan. If you’re new here, the show name comes from me getting stuck with, quite literally, the final hour of the day _and_ station schedule. Perks of having zero listeners, I guess.”

Dan’s phone vibrates with a notification.

 _*one listener,_ Ralph’s texted. Dan rolls his eyes and ignores him.

“I’ve got some Arctic Monkeys and Lana Del Rey in the rotation for tonight, so if those names tickle your fancy, then stick around. And of course, feel free to give me a call to chat about life or music or whatever. I’m shit at talking, but not bad at listening, or at least so I’m told. Alright, here’s some Tame Impala for you. I’ll be back in a bit.”

 _do you think this song is pretentious?_ Dan sends Ralph in the middle of “Posthumous Forgiveness,” spinning around in his chair.

 _oh yeah,_ Ralph replies. _good pretentious though!_

Dan sighs and plants his feet on the floor to drag himself to a stop. The station phone rings.

“Thanks for calling _Final Hour,_ this is Dan.”

“Tonight I’m feeling some old school Bieber. Maybe ‘One Time’? Or, no, how about ‘Favorite Girl—’”

“Hi, Charlie,” Dan says.

“Hello, Dan. How’s your night been?”

“It _was_ going fine.” Dan leans heavily on the _was._ “Are you calling to tell me my music taste is ‘pretentious’ again?”

“I mean.” A pause. “This song is six minutes long.”

“And?”

“Six minutes, Dan,” Charlie says. Dan can practically hear his shudder through the phone. “Six whole minutes.”

“So you’d rather I play a Justin Bieber song.”

“Yes, in fact, I would. I think I’ve finally settled on ‘Somebody to Love,’ if you please.”

“If you hate my music so much, why do you listen to the show?”

“I'm an insomniac. It helps put me to sleep at night,” Charlie says, and if Dan could see him, he’d flip him the bird. As it is, he simply hangs up the phone with slightly more force than necessary.

*

“Evening, Dan!”

“I wish this thing had caller ID,” Dan says.

Charlie ignores him. “I’ve got a killer paper I’m writing tonight, so I’m looking for some motivation. Think you could put on some S Club 7 for me?”

“‘Reach?’” Dan deadpans. “Or, let me guess. Something groovier. ‘Don’t Stop Movin’?’”

“Well, look at you! You know your stuff. Maybe you aren’t a lost cause after all.”

Dan closes his eyes. “I would hate to see the state of your Spotify library.”

“Is yours organized by month?” Charlie asks, delighted. “It is, isn’t it?”

“...I like to keep track of things.”

“I try, but I’m just no good at it. I’ve got…” The sound of typing. A mouse click. “...over 300 playlists.”

“Three _hundred?”_

“This one’s for when I’m reading for my Roman History lecture. Here’s one for the trip I took to Brighton last summer. Oh, and I made this one for my dog—”

Dan feels faint. “How do you function?”

“On lots of coffee,” Charlie says. 

“Have you ever considered that the coffee and the insomnia might go hand-in-hand?”

“Oh, of course. But it’s a vicious cycle, Dan. I stay up all night, drink too much coffee the day after to keep myself conscious, then stay up all night _again,_ this time with the caffeine jitters.”

It’s not like Dan hasn’t been there (he didn’t just agree to the ten to midnight radio slot for no reason, after all). And—is that— does he actually feel sort of... _bad_ for Charlie? Yikes. 

“I switched to tea a bit ago,” he says. “It helped.”

“Ugh, tea is just so...boring.” Charlie heaves a sigh. “But maybe I’ll give it a go. Not tonight, though—I’m gonna be up forever working on this bloody paper. Need all the energy I can get.”

“Maybe the S Club 7 will help,” Dan says, and he doesn’t even mean it sarcastically. “Good luck.”

He spends an embarrassing amount of time after he hangs up scrolling through S Club 7’s discography and finally settles on “S Club Party,” because it is, in fact, a classic (not that he’d ever in a million years admit it—he refuses to give Charlie the satisfaction).

“Right, this one goes out to Charlie, our resident caffeine monster. Don’t fall asleep at your keyboard.”

*

Ralph thinks it’s the funniest thing in the entire world. 

“You have a fan,” he tells Dan over breakfast the next morning. “Like, an actual fan.”

“I do not.”

“He’s called, what, three shows in a row? That’s dedication, mate.”

“He just does it to annoy me,” Dan says. “He thinks my music taste is shit.”

Ralph pauses mid-bite of Cheerios, a little bit of milk dribbling down his chin. “But—he likes _Justin Bieber.”_

“I know,” Dan says solemnly. “I know.”

When Charlie calls that night, Dan almost tells him about it. _My mate thinks_ **_your_ ** _music taste is shit, so ha, take that!—_ but then Charlie would know Dan’s been talking about him, and that would be absolutely no good, so he keeps his mouth shut.

“Can I request ‘Teenage Dream?’” Charlie greets.

“The Katy Perry song?”

“No, the Glee Cast version.”

“Oh my god,” Dan says, but queues up the song anyway. “Get your paper finished?”

“Barely. Think I slept, like, maybe three hours.”

“Why are you still awake? No— _how_ are you still awake?” Dan asks, checking the time on his phone. It reads 23:31. “You should get some rest.”

“Couldn’t miss my favorite radio show, could I?”

Dan can feel a smile pulling at his mouth, and he hates it, hates it, hates it. “Promise you’ll go to sleep after I play your song.”

“Okay, mum, I promise,” Charlie says. “Did you ever watch Glee, by the way? God, what a wild time that was. Can you believe Darren Criss was my gay awakening? Like, of all people, it just had to be the nerdy bloke in a bow tie. Was thirteen-year-old me okay? I’m not totally sure—”

Dan nearly falls out of his chair. He starts coughing like he’s swallowed a golf ball, and Charlie’s voice in his ear goes, “shit, are you alright?” and Dan just coughs and coughs and coughs some more.

“Sorry,” he croaks a solid thirty seconds later when he can breathe again. “Just—drank some water. Wrong pipe.”

“Ah, hate when that happens,” Charlie says, genuinely sympathetic. “Song’s ending—should I let you go?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess.”

“Right. Talk to you later, then.” Charlie hesitates a moment. “I like this one, by the way. What’s it called?”

Dan squints at the computer screen like he’s trying to see underwater. His brain doesn’t want to cooperate; it’s still replaying the words _gay awakening_ on a loop like a scratched CD stuck inside an old walkman. “Um. ‘Greek Tragedy.’ By The Wombats.”

“Cool. Bye, Dan.”

 _(Imma get your heart racing in my skin-tight jeans, be your teenage dream tonight,_ Darren Criss sings later, and Dan sits there with his chin in his hands and thinks, _I wonder what Charlie looks like in skin-tight jeans—_

He jerks up in his chair.

“No. No, no, nope,” he tells his reflection in the window. “We are _not_ doing that.”)

*

Charlie keeps calling. And calling. He requests the Spice Girls and the Jonas Brothers and that one song about being _blue da ba dee da ba dye._ He tells Dan about his two mates, Ed and Ben, and about growing up in Lichfield, and about what it’s like being vegetarian (“Greggs vegan sausage rolls changed my _life.”)_ And soon enough, as embarrassing as it is, waiting for the station phone to ring in the middle of the show has become Dan’s favorite pastime. Listening to Charlie ramble on about nothing in his ear is quickly turning into a close second.

 _how’s ur #1 fan,_ Ralph will frequently text him (that, or just a string of eggplant emojis, depending on his mood that day). Dan always just responds with the middle finger emoji.

“It’s not like working in a café is my dream job. I’ve got goals and ambitions, you know,” Charlie’s telling Dan now, after a particularly long-winded story about some woman yelling at him over a soy latte earlier that day. (The café thing—that explains a lot. Namely the caffeine addiction.) “People just assume that since I’m serving them drinks, I must be stupid. I’m at uni! I’m not stupid.”

“What are they?”

“What?”

“Your goals. And ambitions,” Dan clarifies.

“Oh.” Charlie sounds surprised, like he didn’t think Dan cared enough to ask. “Um. I guess, like, I sort of want to be a music teacher?”

“Really?”

“It’s stupid, I know.”

“No, I—I didn’t mean it like that,” Dan says. “I want to teach as well. English.”

“Really?” Charlie parrots. 

“Yeah. I just—I like books.” Dan ducks his head, his face growing warm, before he remembers Charlie can’t actually see him. “Probably doesn’t help with the whole pretentious thing, does it?”

“I was—that was always just a joke, you know,” Charlie blurts. “You’re actually quite normal. And boring.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“I mean—” Charlie hesitates, and Dan wonders if he’s the one blushing now. “Never mind. Are you going to play a song for me?”

“Sure thing. Which one?”

“...I was thinking Carly Rae Jepsen. ‘I Really Like You.’ Have you heard it?”

“She sings that ‘Call Me Maybe’ song, right?” Dan says, fidgeting with the computer mouse in front of him and ignoring the fireworks that pop off in his stomach upon hearing the song title. “ _I just met you—and this is crazy—”_

 _“But here’s my number,”_ Charlie sings, far too loud and bursting with excitement, right in his ear, _“so call me maybe!_ Yeah, that’s her. Hey, your voice isn’t bad.”

“Neither is yours,” Dan says, grinning from ear-to-ear. He finds the track Charlie’s mentioned and adds it to the queue. “You know, I’m starting to like some of this shit. Think you’re converting me.”

“That’s the goal,” Charlie says, pleased. “Hope you like this one, too.”

“I think I will.”

*

“Do you reckon we’ve seen each other before?”

“In person, you mean?” Dan spins himself around in his chair, bopping his head along to the Hippo Campus song that’s currently playing over the station speakers. “There are, what, 30,000 students here? Seems unlikely.”

Charlie hums in thought. “Yeah. Guess it is. I just thought—I don’t know.”

“What?”

“It feels like I know you. Like, I’ve never met you face-to-face, but for some reason I can—picture you. Is that weird? That’s weird, right?”

“No, I—” Dan swallows. “I get it. I think.”

“You do?”

“Yeah.” Dan clears his throat. “You mean you haven’t tried to Facebook stalk me?”

“Nobody uses Facebook anymore. Except for old men like you,” Charlie says. “Wait. You’re not an old man, are you?”

Dan bursts out laughing. “Not an old man. Cross my heart.”

“Alright, good. Hey, Dan?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you ever, uh.” A pause. “Would you ever want to?”

“Want to...what?”

“Meet. Face-to-face.”

“Oh.” Dan freezes. “I don’t. Um.”

His heart gets stuck in his throat like leaves clogging a gutter. He can hear Charlie breathing on the other end of the line, quick and whisper-soft, and he thinks _this is ridiculous_ and _he’s just some annoying person who listens to your show_ and _I wonder if his smile is as big and bright as it sounds—_

“Never mind,” Charlie rushes to fill the silence. “Forget I brought it up. It was a stupid idea. I should, uh—I’m just going to—”

“Wait,” Dan finally gets out, but the dial tone is already ringing in his ear, cruel and hollow and emotionless, like the door to a deserted building swinging back and forth in the wind.

*

“You haven’t played anything horrendous in awhile,” Ralph points out a few days later. 

He’s randomly decided to accompany Dan to the station tonight and is sprawled across the musty armchair in the corner while Dan browses through his music library, trying to decide if playing “Youth” by Daughter more than once is overkill.

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“Just saying,” Ralph shrugs. “How’s your lad?”

“What lad?”

“Your biggest fan. Charlie.”

“Dunno.” Dan is steadfast in avoiding Ralph’s gaze, which is heavy against the side of his face. “He hasn’t called in a bit.”

“Must be nice. No more stupid requests.”

“Yeah,” Dan says, despondent. He hovers his mouse over “Friday” by Rebecca Black. _Charlie probably loves this dumb song,_ he thinks, then curses himself for it and adds “Youth” to his queue twice more for good measure.

*

Dan’s had the most awful day. He overslept by half an hour, had to skip breakfast, rolled into his lecture just in time for a pop quiz, and now he’s got just twenty minutes before he’s supposed to host a tutoring session over in the library. He contemplates calling in to cancel, but the money’s half decent, and he’s got his rent bill to pay by Friday, so—suffering it is.

He’s speedwalking toward the library when he spots a little café across the way that he’s never been to, and honestly, fuck it—he needs _some_ sort of sustenance if he’s going to survive the next few hours. The shop is pretty plain inside, with lots of tables for students to study and some generic, over-priced sketches hung on the walls. Dan grabs a yoghurt out of the to-go case and approaches the counter.

“Just this and a cappuccino, please,” he tells the clerk, digging around in his pocket for some change.

“That’ll be four twenty-five.”

Dan looks up, money in hand, and promptly gapes like an idiot.

The clerk’s name tag reads _Charlie._ He’s got eyes the color of grass in springtime and his small, polite smile makes the skin around his eyes wrinkle. _There’s no way,_ Dan thinks, followed by, _but maybe—_

“Could I get a name for your drink?”

His voice—how did Dan not notice it before? He’s only been trying to recreate the sound of it in his mind for, oh, the entirety of the past two weeks. This must be Charlie. _His_ Charlie. It’s impossible for it to be anyone else.

“It’s, uh.” He takes a deep breath. “Dan. I’m Dan.”

Charlie freezes, paper cup and pen in hand. His eyes go round like full moons. “Dan?”

“Yes. D-A-N. That’s me,” Dan babbles. He dumps his change on the counter and picks up his yoghurt, itching to disappear into the ether. “You can keep the change, I’m just going to—er—”

“Wait, wait.” Charlie sounds out of breath. “Are you Dan, as in— _Dan?”_

“It’s a common name, really—”

“Dan from _Final Hour.”_

“Well.” Dan rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah. Yes. That’s my show.”

“I’m Charlie. Like, bubblegum-pop-garbage Charlie.”

“Yes, I, um—I gathered that much.”

Charlie hasn’t moved. He blinks over at Dan in wonder. “Wow. Wow, this is so crazy. I just—I can’t believe you’re here. Did _you_ Facebook stalk _me?”_

“Only old men use Facebook,” Dan says.

Charlie bursts out laughing, and it’s the most magical thing Dan’s ever heard, all high-pitched and joyous and slightly honky. “And you are...definitely not an old man.”

“Definitely not,” Dan agrees, mouth ticking up into a smile. 

“I thought—” Charlie’s smile fades, his brows furrowing together. “You said you didn’t want to meet.”

“I didn’t say that. You hung up before I could say anything at all.”

“You were so quiet!” Charlie bursts out. “I assumed you were just—busy thinking about how I was probably a psycho or something.”

“I never thought that.” A pause. “Well, maybe for a bit in the beginning.”

“‘Breaking Free’ is a great song.”

Just like that, the tension is broken. Charlie offers him another smile, and Dan smiles back. Then he catches sight of the clock on the wall and curses under his breath. “Shit, shit, I have to go like, right now. I’m so sorry, it’s just—I have this tutoring thing—”

“It’s alright,” Charlie waves him off. “I’ll, um, call you tonight? On the show?”

“You could come, if you want?” Dan blurts. “To the station, I mean. See me in my natural habitat, and all that.”

Charlie blinks, his cheeks turning a tad pink. “Oh. Okay, yeah, that’d be...cool. Ten o’clock?”

“See you then,” Dan promises, peeling open his yoghurt cup as he heads for the door.

“Wait, you—don’t forget your coffee!” Charlie calls after him.

*

Dan shows up to the station at approximately 21:38 that night because he’s a nervous wreck and the thought of Charlie sitting in the booth with him, watching him pick out songs and talk into a mic at _literally no one,_ has him shitting actual bricks. What was he thinking, inviting to Charlie to come? It was a bad idea. A terrible one. He’s just going to embarrass himself, and then Charlie’s going to realize what a hopeless dork he is, and—that will be that, really.

Charlie shows up at 21:51. He knocks on the window, smiling hesitantly at Dan through the glass as he waits for him to come open the door.

“Hey,” Dan says.

“Hi,” Charlie says back. 

They look at each for a minute. Dan clears his throat. “Um. Right, come in. This is—well, this is it. Leeds Student Radio in all its glory.”

Charlie pokes around for a bit, examining all of the different buttons and volume sliders and computer monitors. He points at a set of headphones, which are lying on the table next to Dan’s phone and a bottle of water. “This where the magic happens, then?”

“I wouldn’t call it ‘magic’ but—yeah,” Dan says. He dares to drift a little closer, until they’re standing side by side in front of the mixer. “Doubt anyone’ll be listening tonight. Except for my mate Ralph, he always listens. Don’t know why, because I sound like a total knob, I’m sure.”

“You don’t,” Charlie says. “You have so much to say about the music. It’s—you sound smart.”

Dan’s stomach bubbles like a fizzy drink. “I do?”

“Yeah.” Charlie ducks his head and stares at the rows of buttons in front of them. “I like listening to you. Your voice is...soothing.”

“Oh,” Dan says stupidly.

Charlie finally turns to look at him, his face flushed and his expression sheepish. “Anyway, I, uh—I brought some recs, if you want?”

“Ah, here we go. What monstrosities do you have in mind for tonight?”

“One Direction, for sure.” Charlie starts ticking the items off on his fingers. “‘Happy’ by Pharrell. Honestly, it’s a miracle I didn’t request it sooner. And there’s that song by Aqua—the one about being a barbie girl—”

“Okay, okay, that’s enough. My ears are already burning.”

“But you’ll play them, won’t you?”

Dan pretends to be put-out. “Suppose I don’t have much choice, do I?”

“I’m converting you. You said it yourself.”

“Right. Get out of my hair.” Dan points at the armchair in the corner. “That’s your spot. This is mine. Don’t bother me, you’ll mess with my flow.”

“I’m going, I’m going,” Charlie laughs. “Break a leg.”

Dan salutes him and pulls on his headphones just as the clock switches to 22:00. He unmutes the mic and tries very, very hard to ignore the way Charlie is looking right at him.

“Evening, everyone. It’s ten o’clock, so you know what that means: it’s me, Dan, back again to talk your ear off about music you definitely don’t care about. I’ve got some...interesting tunes on the rota tonight, that’s for sure. Your ears may or may not bleed. I make no guarantees.”

Over in the corner, Charlie slaps a hand over his mouth to stifle his laugh. Dan flips him off.

“Right, let’s get going, shall we? You’re listening to _Final Hour_ on Leeds Student Radio. Here’s some MGMT to kick things off.”

 _interesting tunes??_ Ralph texts him. _does that mean lover boy is back?????_

Dan puts his phone on Do Not Disturb and takes off his headphones. Charlie looks at him and says, “that was so weird.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m so used to just hearing you. Not—” Charlie waves a hand in his general direction. “This. Seeing you. It’s a mind trip.”

“It’s worse in person, right?” Dan jokes, self-deprecating as always.

“No, no, not at all. It’s—better. So much better."

Dan’s brain turns to static. He watches, frozen, as Charlie rises from the armchair and walks around the mixing table, until he’s stood right in front of Dan with a shy yet determined look on his face.

 _“I really like you,”_ he says, with emphasis.

Dan stands up as well. He’s got a good few centimeters on Charlie, and it’s nice, how he can look down a little—how he could tuck Charlie right up against his chest, if he wanted. He swallows past the moth wings beating in his throat.

“Like the song?” he asks.

Charlie smiles, and it’s—Dan’s favorite book. A popsicle on a hot summer’s day. The kind of song lyric that walks straight past your skin and nestles into the very core of your being.

“Yeah,” Charlie says. “Like that.”

Dan kisses him. Charlie’s lips are soft and slightly chapped and taste like coffee. He puts his hands on Dan’s waist and Dan cups the back of his neck and they kiss and kiss and kiss until MGMT fades into Clairo fades into Kanye and they’re somehow on the armchair, Charlie draped across Dan’s lap with both of their shirts wrinkled and Dan’s hair standing up every which way.

“The show,” Dan says while Charlie licks a line up his neck. “I should—your requests, I need to—”

“Your pretentious music will do for now,” Charlie tells him, then sucks a mark into Dan’s skin that’s most certainly still going to be there tomorrow morning.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on [tumblr!](http://goodlesson.tumblr.com)


End file.
